Overcomer - The Journey, Judy Colella [book reader for pc txt] 📗

“Uh, went to work?”

“Besides that.”

“No clue.”

“I found you a harp-teacher!” He sat back, loosening his belt and looking pleased with himself. “That was quite a meal, love,” he told his wife with a grin. “I’m stuffed to the gills.”

“Oh, whoa, whoa!” Celeste dropped her fork onto the plate. “You did what?”

“Found you a teacher.”

“That’s great! When can we start?”

“Hmm. How’s Saturday?”

“What time?” Tara asked. “Not too early, please?”

Donal laughed, reached over and tousled Tara’s dark hair. “Need your beauty sleep, do you?”

“No, I’m already beautiful, thank you. But I like to sleep in a little on weekend mornings before Mom - " she tossed a friendly glare in her mother’s direction, “ – wakes us up to do chores.”

“Well, I told him eleven o’clock. His name – need help with that?” He interrupted himself and half-arose as he addressed Eileen, who was starting to remove dishes from the table.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Sit.” She gave him a big smile and nodded toward the girls. “You were saying?”

“Ah, yes. His name is Gerald Croghan.” He pronounced it “Crawn” but with an Irish lilt, betraying its origins.

“Makes sense,” said Celeste, digging into another lamb chop. “An Irish harp teacher for an Irish harp.”

Mrs. Kelly had gone into the kitchen and was coming back out as Celeste said this. “Indeed!” She continued to remove plates and silverware. “When everyone is done eating, I have some Devonshire cream and blueberries for dessert.”

“Great. Take your time, Celeste. We can wait.”

Noting Tara’s glower, she returned it with a sickly smile, spearing another forkful. “Good. Not all of us eat like half-starved wolves.”

Donal cleared his throat. “Well now, I don’t know about everybody else, but I’m so full I could use a few minutes between courses.”

“Me too,” Katie agreed. “No offense, Tara, but I mean it. The meal was incredible, Mrs. K, and I think I may have eaten more than usual. I’m stuffed!”

“Didn’t think that was possible,” Celeste said under her breath. A few minutes later she got up from the table to bring her empty dish into the kitchen, and came back out carrying a big bowl of the delightful cream in one hand and a smaller bowl of blueberries in the other.

When they were done eating, the family and Katie helped Eileen clear the table, rinse off the plates and load the dishwasher. Then, having dealt with the pots and pans, they all filed into the family room to relax.

Donal took the harp from its place beside his leather recliner. “Here she is!”

Katie got up and crouched beside the chair, running a finger over the carved scrollwork. “Seriously, this is the loveliest thing I remember ever seeing.”

“Would you like to hold it?” Donal nodded at it.

“Wow, may I?”

“Of course – be careful, though.”

She took it into her arms and plucked one of the strings.

Celeste sighed at the sound, which to her ears was somewhere between molten silver and the voice of a star. “Wow,” she breathed. “That is awesome!”

“That’s what I said,” Tara remarked.

“But enough for one night! Mind you, I don’t mean to tease.” Donal’s grin denied that statement, but Celeste also knew him well enough to see he was partly serious. “I don’t want a thing to happen to it, and must put it away now.”

Soon after, Katie’s mother came and took her home, Tara went upstairs to get ready for bed – under protest – and Celeste, feeling drained, went back into the family room for another look at the harp. She decided to put off doing her homework until later, hoped she wouldn’t fall asleep before it was done, then decided she didn’t care.

Cian’s thoughts raced, tumbling, jumbled, new memories of old knowledge battling with questions about what had been and what should happen next. Like the girls, he had been jolted by the outcome of their discussion, but had controlled his reactions.

As he walked home, exhilaration was added to the shock: he had found the person he’d been told to seek, the one who could reconnect him with all he had known and lost. Of course, that didn’t help much without clear instruction about what to do next. More important – what was he supposed to say to Celeste and Katie about all this? If only he could remember more about his past, who he was, why he’d been brought here.

When he reached the state-run home where he’d lived for the past several days, Cian ran up its wooden steps and unlocked the door. He was late.

A wide foyer with a carpeted staircase and doors that opened on the left, right, and straight ahead reminded Cian of the mansion in Atlanta, but where that home was white, plant-filled, and airy, this one was defined by dark, polished wood and smaller windows. For a colder climate, the spacious Tudor house was perfect.

At the back was the kitchen and beyond that, a large breakfast nook that had been converted into an office. Joe Geller, the social worker who ran the foster home, sat behind his desk, reading. Taking a deep breath to stabilize the tumult in his head, Cian knocked on the glass-paneled door.

Mr. Geller looked up and waved Cian in. “Where’ve you been?” A finger tapped the face of the large watch on Mr. Geller’s wrist.

“I am sorry, sir. I met with two of my classmates after school to discuss… history.”

“History, you say.” Amusement glinted in his eyes. “And what gender were these classmates?”

“They were girls – but it’s not what you might think, Mr. Geller, I promise!”

“Cian, I’m delighted that you’re spending time with young ladies. That’s healthy behavior, and I have no problem with it. What I do have a problem with, is you not calling to tell me you’re going to be late.”

Phones! Cian was so unused to these devices, especially cell phones, he rarely thought to use his. He felt terrible – this man had put so much trust in him, was working so hard to help him adjust to normal life...

Mr. Geller laughed. “Don’t look so stricken. I’m only reminding you to keep in touch, okay?”

“Oh. Okay.” While no longer expecting to be struck every time he made a mistake, not tensing was impossible. He nodded, made himself relax. “I’ll try harder to remember, sir.”

“Good.” Geller pointed at a sheet of paper in front of him that Cian recognized as the meal schedule. “Pot roast tonight! Hope you’re hungry.”

Smiling, relieved, Cian nodded. “I think I am, sir. Thank you – I’m going upstairs to get my homework done now.” He left the office and trotted up the back set of stairs, through a connecting door, and down a long hallway to his bedroom. Compared with the dark, damp, moldy cellar he’d lived in for six years, this room was a miracle.

Dropping his backpack on his desk, he went to the window and looked out at the large backyard with its winter-browned grass, the trees bare and looming. Were it not for the lowering sun making a yellow-orange backdrop for the lacy pattern of branch-shadows across the lawn, the view might have been gloomy, yet still far nicer than the barren landscape surrounding the house in Georgia.

As he watched the day fade, the sky going from gold to deep red to purple, he began to feel less frantic. Someone… perhaps his mother? Not remembering well made him sad. But someone had once told him that hope sometimes hid itself, yet it was always nearby, and would come blazing forth at exactly the moment it was most needed. Sounded nice, but didn’t fit with his life. Or hadn’t. Until Celeste Kelly. Was she his hope?

If only he knew why he had been chosen to be part of all of this in the first place; or maybe why he had stumbled into it by mistake if that was what had happened… why couldn’t he remember? Realizing his hands were clenched at his sides, he opened them, shook them out.

The bell for supper chimed and he focused. As he hurried to the bathroom at the end of the hall to wash up, he realized he hadn’t started his homework. Good job, Cian.

Several of his housemates were already seated when he got to the dining room. Tomorrow night it would be his turn to help with setting the table and the cleanup, but tonight that was someone else’s chore, so he sat in his usual place near the end by the windows.

Only four other foster children were living there, two of them twelve years old, one fifteen, and the other, like Cian, seventeen but older by almost eight months. His name was George Pacheco; as the “senior” resident, he sat near the head of the table to Mr. Geller’s right, and was expected to set an example for proper etiquette. Mr. Geller had explained all this not long after Cian’s arrival four days earlier. The implication, of course, was that once George was gone, Cian would be expected to fill that role. He wasn’t sure he could, but had enough to think about already, and refocused.

George. Not on his senior position, on him. Cian hadn’t been at the foster home long enough to say more than a few words in passing to George, but because they were so close in age, he thought it might be easier to discuss his problem with him than Mr. Geller, maybe tell him as much as he remembered of his bizarre past. Assuming he didn’t have me committed for insanity, he might offer some good advice.

As the food was served, Cian stared at the older boy. If he approached George the right way, and managed to explain his dilemma without sounding like a complete lunatic… maybe… He blinked. No. As it was, Cian knew almost nothing about his past. Trying to explain the parts he did know, most of which sounded like fiction, would be ridiculous.

Around him, conversations had begun. Cian knew he wouldn’t participate unless someone asked him a direct question. So much of what they were discussing had to do with things about which he knew little, and he hated looking stupid. Had to avoid anything that might cause his newfound self-esteem to wither. Having to return a question with a blank stare was one of those things to avoid.

Sighing, he turned his attention to the meal. Everything tasted delicious; an early memory, one of the few that had returned, arose and commandeered his thoughts: his mother. Pounding raw dough on a wide-planked table. Brown, grainy flour taking up residence in her hair and eyelashes; on her chin and along her sturdy arms; under her fingernails and in every crease and plane of her clothing. As she worked, she told Cian that nothing made without love was worth eating. He heard his younger self ask how he would know if a thing was made with love or not. Her response had been simple, if cryptic: “Oh, you’ll know, boy. You’ll know.”

Whether or not the foster-home cook had a particular love for everyone there he had no idea, but she smiled a lot and had a friendly word for him and the others whenever addressed. And since nothing he’d eaten there so far had been unpleasant in any way, his mother’s wisdom had held. He wished her